


Paint

by what_a_dork_fish



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: AU, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-05-12 20:36:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5679853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_a_dork_fish/pseuds/what_a_dork_fish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Piece of a possible story once I finish up some of my other ones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paint

Harry sat in a corner, watching the young artist paint. The painter had three brushes in use; one behind his ear, one in his hand, and another between his teeth. He never looked anywhere except his subject and the canvas, secure in his little bubble.

Harry took a kind of selfish, proprietary pride in the artist. It was Harry who’d found this waif on the street, selling paintings full of color; it was Harry who had taken him in, cleaned and fed him, turned him away from his secondary job of thief; Harry had been the one to find patrons for him. And Harry had been the one to fall for him.

But that was a secret that he’d never reveal. Instead, Harry turned his head and eyed his little love’s current subject.

It was a young woman of Harry’s set, just a little younger than the painter, having her first portrait painted, and she was very excited. Her cheeks were pinker than any makeup could make them, and though her body language was calm and patient, her mouth kept twitching into a smile and her eyes gleamed with happiness. Maybe it was just because she also fancied the artist. Harry didn’t think so. He knew this girl’s parents; they had often complained to him of her excitable, precocious nature, and had assured him fervently that he’d done the right thing, swearing not to have children of his own.

The artist sighed shortly and took the paintbrush from between his teeth. “I think that’s enough for today,” he announced, careful to pronounce each syllable correctly. Harry had instructed him to be very sure of how he spoke around this particular subject; she was as great a chatterer as her father.

“Can I see it?” she asked eagerly.

“Absolutely,” the artist agreed, grinning.

Harry stood as Miss Catherine did, though he hung back as she bounced over to circle the artist’s little bubble and peer at the painting. She laughed after a moment, and looked up at the artist with a grin as her blush increased. “I wasn’t actually doing a Mona Lisa smile, was I?” she asked, narrowing her eyes in mock suspicion.

“You were,” the other answered gravely, though his eyes were dancing and the corner of his mouth twisted upwards just a little. “One more day and it’ll be finished.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you, Mr. Unwin!” Catherine threw her arms around the artist’s neck and hugged him tightly, turned so no paint would stain her dress, and when she let go she bounded out of the room like a young gazelle.

“You’re too nice, Eggsy,” Harry murmured, amused despite himself.

Eggsy snorted and started to clean his brushes. “You’re one to talk. Why do you keep letting people talk you into getting me to paint for them?”

“I don’t. I let people talk me into asking you politely for you to bend your considerable talent—“

“Here we go with the big long speech again,” Eggsy sighed, rolling his eyes dramatically. Harry resisted the urge to bop him on the head with the paint palette. “I ain’t any more talented than the next painter. Now when can we get back to _our_ portrait?”

Harry didn’t blush anymore, but every time Eggsy talked about “their” portrait, he came very close. “Not tonight, I think,” he answered, eyeing the painting so he wouldn’t have to look at Eggsy. “There isn’t—“

Eggsy suddenly leaned over and kissed Harry’s cheek, grinning as Harry’s head whipped around to stare at him. “We’ll make time,” he replied comfortably, and went back to cleaning his brushes.

Harry resisted the urge to raise his hand and touch the spot where Eggsy had kissed him, and instead just turned sharply and left the room, to see if Catherine and her parents were finding their way out alright or if he’d have to rescue some poor housemaid from the incessant talking.

~\0/~

Eggsy was very frustrated with Harry’s overly-gallant giving of space. His pining was so obvious even the stuffiest of stuffed shirts had noticed. At least he didn’t mind Eggsy’s drawing him shirtless in the name of studying anatomy. It wasn’t. Anyone would be able to tell, if they knew. It came through in the way Eggsy rendered every detail. Harry always refused to let Eggsy draw or paint his face, but the rest of him was… what was that new word Eggsy had learned? Exquisite. Harry was exquisite. A perfect subject.

Harry didn’t know that Eggsy thought that, or they’d have been in bed together a lot sooner.

As Eggsy had said, Harry politely declined a dinner invitation, and Eggsy turned down yet another commission with a flat, frank, “I already have a personal project I need to finish. Next week, maybe.”

With their evening free, Harry and Eggsy went up to Eggsy’s studio and shut the door. Let the housefolk gossip about what must happen in there; they had a portrait to finish.

~\0/~

Harry wasn’t sure he approved of this pose, but he certainly didn’t mind having Eggsy look at him for a long time, so it was even. It was the stripping to his pants that gave him the most mixed feelings. Eggsy insisted it was all in the name of art. Was it?

Harry had plenty of time to ponder this, because this session took much longer than usual. When the last bit of light left the sky, Eggsy sighed regretfully and laid down his brush. Harry immediately rose, stretching a little to work out the kinks in his muscles and spine. He knew what Eggsy was going to say from the look on his face. He had not finished, which meant Harry would have to pose like that again.

“Well, that’s this one done,” Eggsy announced gloomily, making Harry blink in surprise. “Which brings it up to an even dozen.”

It took Harry a moment to digest this. _Twelve_ paintings of him? He could’ve sworn it was much fewer than that. Why was he so flattered? Shaking the emotion out of his head, he answered Eggsy, “I keep telling you, you need a different model.”

Eggsy glared at him. “You’re a good model, though,” he grumbled, wiping his hands on a rag already so smeared that it only added to the mess. “You don’t move around unless we’re taking a break.”

Harry did not attempt to shake out the little glow of pleasure in his chest. He thoroughly enjoyed being complimented, especially by Eggsy. Instead, he simply fetched a clean rag. When he walked back to Eggsy and held it out, he accidentally glanced at the painting, and blinked. That… that wasn’t really him, was it? He wasn’t nearly that graceful-looking. It made him extremely uncomfortable.

Ah, yes; that’s why he tries not to look at most of Eggsy’s studies. He was an impressionist, for all that his realism was impeccable. And it unnerved Harry that Eggsy would paint him so… personally? Intimately? No, that was a horribly hopeful word. Harry turned his back on the painting and went to put his outer wear back on.

“Do you not like it?”

Harry straightened immediately and turned back to Eggsy. No—please don’t be upset, dearest, it has nothing to do with you. But it stuck in Harry’s throat, and all he could manage was, “I don’t like looking at myself. That’s all.”

Eggsy’s uncertain look—he looked so young and vulnerable and it _hurt_ to see him like that—faded to a closed expression and an understanding nod. Harry sighed silently, steeled himself, then walked over and placed a feather-light kiss on Eggsy’s temple. “You are a brilliant painter,” he told the younger man firmly, somehow managing to meet his astonished eyes. “Just because—“

And then Eggsy grabbed his ears and kissed him hard on the mouth, and Harry forgot what he was going to say.


End file.
